


Autism is Life

by linguisticameencanta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock, Gen, Growing Up, Kid Fic, Kidlock, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV will change in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:44:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguisticameencanta/pseuds/linguisticameencanta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Sherlock growing up with many names for what he is and who he should be and how he should behave. This is the story of how Sherlock became who he is and how he so easily could have been overlooked.<br/>--<br/>Will contain potentially triggering scenes and words. I will warn at the top of each chapter as necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock is Definitely Not Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> This is entirely a work of fiction based on more fiction written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and adapted to the modern age by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All credit goes to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss, and the BBC. I own absolutely none of this and have not, am not, and will not ever make money from writing this. This is written entirely as a work of love and is a story that isn't out there. Yet. If you have written Sherlock as autistic it is likely that I have read your work(s) and therefore if you see something familiar and think I may have yanked something from you, please message me with details and I would be happy to include a note and give credit. 
> 
> Authors notes:  
> There is a lot of controversy in this fandom over Sherlock and a possible mental health diagnosis. We now have proof (from Moffat at SDCC 2013) that Sherlock is in fact, not at all a sociopath (and of course, there is no such thing as a high functioning sociopath). Therefore, I would like to posit that Sherlock is somewhere on the Autism Spectrum, or at the very least, BBC Sherlock, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, is on the spectrum. His performance would be frighteningly accurate if in fact autism was something frightening. It isn't. 
> 
> A lot, but not all, of us on the spectrum identify with or at least see parts of ourselves in Sherlock. Fanfiction is a way for us to see more of ourselves reflected in others, another way to tell our own story. This is mine. Parts of this are based on my life, parts are based on experiences I have seen written from friends on Tumblr in the actuallyautistic tag. A lot of this is just made-up, exaggerated to get the point across. This is not just my story, but I hope that it is a story that many on the spectrum can identify with, even if just in a small part.
> 
> Thank you for reading and do not be afraid to comment with criticism or praise or whatever you feel is appropriate. 
> 
> This work does not currently have a beta reader so any mistakes/oversights/problems are mine, though I have proof-read this several times.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: ableist opinions and mentions of the r-slur.

Winter 1979/1980

Mycroft had looked forward to having a new baby brother in the house. He, in all of his seven years, was going to make sure that little Sherlock would learn everything he, himself, knew, like how to pick the lock on the library door. His parents had talked with him extensively over the past few months on how to handle a baby gently and ways to prevent injuries. Mycroft had made lists, read books front to back, and had a plan for Sherlock. He was going to be the best older brother, ever.

Each day he enquired, "Mummy, when do you go away to hospital to get Sherlock?" To which she always said "He will be here whenever he is ready to be, Mycroft. Remember, the doctor said he may come a bit too early. You'll be a big brother, soon, sweetie."

On the fifth of January, mummy was in an awful state. Mycroft was ordered to go upstairs to his room while his father tried to help her get comfortable. He could still hear her yelps of pain even across the house. Still, determined to what was likely best for both mummy and his brother, he dutifully got out the book he had received at Christmas. He had read it four times, and was convinced he knew everything about bees. He had even asked to get a small, plush bee for Sherlock to play with. 

About an hour later, he heard his father calling him quite urgently. "Mycroft, grab your jumper and your shoes! Your mum thinks Sherlock is on the way! Hurry!"

He dashed downstairs, completely forgetting his jumper, and put his feet in his shoes without bothering to tie them. As he darted outside, he saw his father was already in the car, and his mummy in the back seat. 'Oh, boy!' he thought, 'I get to be a big brother and sit in the front seat!'

It was a position he soon wished he wasn't in. Mummy was making dreadful noises, father was speeding, and Mycroft was in front unable to help, or stop the screams. 

Once at hospital, mummy was quickly whisked away in a wheelchair with lots of nurses and doctors surrounding her. It was then that reality hit him - his mummy said that Sherlock might come early. He also knew that there was supposed to be one doctor and one or two nurses. They had it all planned out. Mycroft knew how this would proceed. Except now, he didn't. 

He was largely alone for the next five hours, his book on bees his only companion.

Finally, his father opened the door with a huge grin on his face. "Mycroft," he said, excitedly, "Sherlock is here! Come!"

Mycroft leapt out of his chair, book in hand, to scamper after his father. "Is Sherlock well, father? He got here too early, didn't he?"

For the first time that night, his father looked less than ecstatic. "He is quite small, but he's here and as far as we know, he is fine. Just tiny..." he trailed off, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Alarmed, Mycroft asked, as he caught his fathers hand, "does tiny mean he won't live?!"

"I'm sure he'll be fine. Look, we're here. Enough." And with that, the discussion was cut short as he saw his new brother for the first time. 

He had read a lot about newborns, but not once had he seen a picture of someone so very small. His mother was lying beside an incubator, a bundle of blankets with wires and tubes all he could see. A deep pink little hand reached out for a moment, as though sensing someone or something he wanted. Mycroft imagined his brother was trying to reach him to say hello. He was already mesmerised.

Before he could ask to be held up to see the baby properly, an alarm went off and nurses came dashing over to see what happened. He was pulled backwards into his father to keep him out of the way. 

"Be ok! Be ok! Sherlock!" he screeched, and tried to scramble out of his fathers' arms. 

"Hush, Mycroft!" his mum sternly ordered. He let out one more small cry before burying his head in his fathers' shirt, his book dropped to the floor, unnoticed. 

"NICU, NICU, NOW!" a nurse yelled after a few moments and then Sherlock was quickly rolled out of the room. One nurse, an older gentleman, stayed behind a moment to explain. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes, but your son isn't strong enough to be with you, yet. We had hoped his lungs would be more developed with the steroids you were given, but he still needs time." He looked solemnly at all of them, doubt written all over his face. "Once he is stable you may come visit. It helps to hold them. They crave touch, particularly when they are premature. I'll see you soon. If you'll excuse me..." 

\--

Mycroft, despite being mature for age 7, was disallowed to see Sherlock in the NICU for two months. He had to watch as his parents went to see his brother while he stood on a chair behind glass. It was torture for him, being so close, wanting to enact his "Big Brother Plan." He wanted to brush the tiny little mop of ringlets on his brothers' head.  
He wanted to read to him. He wanted to put Sherlock on his lap and teach him all the things he learned at school. No brother of his would be just average. So far, his tiny and decidedly-not-average brother had grown from 1.3kg to 2.1kg and his lungs were now fully developed - and he made full use of them.

Every time his parents, or even a nurse, went to touch Sherlock, he would scream as though he was on fire. He would not tolerate being held and carressed unless there were several blankets between him and whomever was attempting to move or hold him. Mummy was beyond distraught that she could barely get Sherlock to nurse at all, and certainly not the "natural" way, as was expected. No, from day two (after a fairly disastrous and stressful day one) it was decided that Sherlock would need to be fed from a bottle exclusively. Little Mycroft had seen how upset his brother was even with a bottle. 

He quickly read and analyzed, as best his 7 year old brain could, all the books and articles the nurses brought for his parents to read. Surely one of them could explain why Sherlock was so distraught? Most of the articles were quite out-dated and advocated something called "de-sensitisation" which sounded quite awful. It seemed that most of the experts thought that when a baby cried at an upsetting picture or sound, they just needed to get used to it so it would no longer be scary. 

It was also, he concluded, the technique that had been attempted first and not discarded quickly enough. Didn't they see that Sherlock wasn't scared of the touch? He just wasn't expecting it. Even he saw, right after Sherlock was born, that his little tiny hand had reached out for a connection. Maybe it was just the surprise that upset him so much. 

A few other articles discussed "problem children" and "mental retardation." The former seemed too soon to think about (Sherlock was only a few weeks old! Not the several years old that was mentioned) and the latter... the latter could not be applied to his brother. No. His brother couldn't be a Holmes and be ... retarded. He couldn't let his brother be labelled like that. 

A week later, Mycroft noticed that more articles and books had been brought into the sitting room and the earlier materials were in a box, clearly to be returned or thrown out with the trash. Upon further investigation, he found it was more of the same. Various states of mental retardation. Some notes about "care facilities." 

No. This was wrong, couldn't they see? Sherlock was due to come home in a few days and it seemed that his Big Brother Plan needed a lot of very thorough revising. First on his plan was how to get his parents to see that Sherlock wasn't a problem and wasn't mentally retarded. He was going to be just fine once Mycroft could be with him. He was sure of it. Adults never noticed anything - but he did.

\--

23 March, 1980

"Mycroft, remember, please, do not touch him without one of us around. You are forbidden," his father sternly instructed, "your mother and I cannot deal with more screaming right now. Or ever, but that seems unavoidable." 

Mycroft's face was the picture of obedience and did not at all betray his rebellious thoughts. He watched calmly as a nurse walked past carrying a large bundle of blankets with electronic leads coming out of the bottom. At the top, near her elbow, was a small tuft of jet black curls. For the moment, at least, Sherlock was quiet. 

He followed his parents and the nurse into Sherlock's new room, which had recently been re-modeled with soft padding on the bars of his cot and now had room for medical equipment to be installed beside it. 

The nurse, R Shields, her badge said, looked quite severe and worn out, already. The clock on the wall told him it was just past 9 in the morning. Oh, goodness. 

The moment she had placed Sherlock, still bundled, in the cot, she rounded on Mycroft, looked at him mere seconds, and with a voice that exuded military training, further forbade him in Sherlock's room. His mummy and father had no outward objection or reaction to this, other than shoo him out into the hallway. There he overheard the most damning opinion of his brother, one that would ultimately shape the rest of his, and Sherlock's, lives there at home on the estate. 

"Ah, yes. That explains it, then." The voice was still unfamiliar, so definitely the nurse.

A pause. "What explains what?" His mummy, sounding puzzled.

"The boy, the chubby thing. Smart, isnt he?" Sounds of fabric being rustled and hard plastic items, small, being arranged. Unpacking. 

"Yes, yes! How could you tell? Our Mycroft is very advanced for his age. So much so that he is currently being tutored here at home rather than school. He's a little genius, our boy!" Deep voice. His father. Pride. 

Mycroft had read enough, now, to know what the nurse was going to say before he heard it. 

"Always happens that way. You can only have so much intelligence in a family. If one is off the charts smart, you can bet that another kid is going to get what's left at the bottom of the barrel." The nurse sighed, still gruff. 

He heard his mummy sniffle softly, which was soon cut-off. She would be staring at door, willing the nurse to walk out of it. Holmes's are never to be seen in a moment of vulnerability.

Mycroft had heard enough, and went silently back to his room. The moment his parents went to bed that night, The Big Brother Plan would be enacted.


	2. Big Brother Plan Step One: Disobey Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter wherein Sherlock is brought home, Mycroft is scolded, and the Big Brother Plan, Step One, is enacted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be coming back to these first few chapters and adding to them/filling them out, but really needed to just get the ideas out there right now.   
> -  
> Now beta'd by my friend Goldenheartedrose. :-) Thank you so very much.

23 March, 1980, late evening

It had been a long day at the Holmes' estate. Long for his parents because they couldn't avoid upsetting Sherlock, even after the terrible nurse had left them with instructions and supplies. Dinner was a quiet affair; Mummy ate almost nothing. Father had a bit too much wine. He ate a bit too much, but it helped the worry go away, slightly, so he grabbed another cookie as he watched the servants clear the table. 

On his way to bed, as he was supposed to do, he stopped in the doorway to Sherlock's room and looked in. His brother was curled up, back firmly planted against the padded rails, and his head equally as secure in the corner of the cot. His diaper bulged out from his tiny, still very thin body, and the sleeves of his romper had been folded back on themselves so his hands and tiny fingernails couldn't scratch himself. 

As he got closer, he saw dozens of red scratches on Sherlock's face, arms, and hands. 

"Idiots," he sighed, "they couldn't even be bothered to take common safety precautions with you. How do they..." 

He trailed off as Sherlock noticed his presence and stared at him with piercing eyes.

"Hello there, dear brother," he said softly. 

He was standing in front of the crib, now, watching as his new brother tried to figure out who he was and if this mildly chubby boy was "safe." At least, that was what Mycroft hoped was going on in Sherlock's little head. Those tiny eyes had now fixated on Mycroft's hands holding onto the padded bars of the crib. Sherlock's soft, impossibly small, covered hands flailed about, seemingly trying to touch Mycrofts'. 

Mycroft's heart suddenly beat so fast and hard he could hear it in his ears. He took a step back to survey the best way to get the side of the crib down low enough to finally interact with his brother and had some difficulty with the latches so it would stay up just enough to keep him from rolling out and off. 

He put his arm flat onto the baby sized mattress with his hand open, just within Sherlock's reach, if he wanted to, or could, coordinate his movements at will. Mycroft wasn't sure a two month old could, yet, but his brother was exceptional, he knew it, so anything was possible. He hoped. 

"Sherlock. We haven't met, yet. You've been ill and in hospital and I couldn't visit you." He took a breath. "I'm your big brother. That means we are family. I get to teach you everything I know." 

Sherlock's tiny limbs flailed a bit as if in enthusiastic response.  
Mycroft took this as an encouraging sign, though he decided for this first night, he would avoid trying to touch Sherlock, just in case. Figuring out alternatives and ways to make it ok weren't going to be easy.

He kept his arm and hand perfectly still while he told Sherlock what to expect from their parents while at their estate and that mummy was likely to be upset by disobedience when they were in public. He informed his brother that when father was home, you must always do as instructed. No questions. No waiting. No matter how idiotic and ill-thought out the demand.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his own admission of annoyance, and, to his delight, Sherlock made a gurling noise and a few bubbles of saliva floated around on his lips.

"Sherlock... That's cute, yes, but you can't have your drool all over you." He was searching what was nearby to help wipe it away because he had seen relatives do it to his cousins. Who would want to be all slimy, anyway?

He grabbed the corner of a dark blanket with high pile (his mind instantly realized this was better than the tissues on the table - high pile is not directly correlated to softness, but he reasoned it would do in a blanket). 

"Here, Sherlock. Let me clean you up a bit." He made a move to reach towards his little mouth but stopped within reach of his brothers' arms to make sure Sherlock could see it and know it was coming. What the stupid nurses in the hospital never saw they were doing wrong was appalling. Mycroft didn't handle surprises and unexpected reactions well, either, mainly because he had to know what was going on in order to control it. He knew he was smarter than his parents in many ways, and at least with social manipulation, he was far superior.

Sherlock stared at the blanket on Mycroft's hand like it was the most fascinating thing. He moved closer and, there, contact. One pass, Sherlock wriggled and flailed his arms a but, but didn't panic. A second pass, still no escalating reaction, and a third swipe had all of the spit bubbles gone. 

He did what the adults couldn't do.


	3. Mycroft's first accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Event summary over next few weeks, no dialogue in this chapter. Mycroft makes his first big accident with Sherlock. Ridiculousness ensues. Brief.

Chapter 3

6 April, 1980

The Holmes' household had largely settled into a vague sense of routine now that Sherlock had been brought home. Nurses had been interviewed and selected and a rotation schedule setup so that Sherlock had round the clock care, regardless of if either Mummy or Father were at home. They had important work to attend to and nothing was more important than their work, just as any other elite and respectable family.

Mycroft's nanny, Ms. Harmon, was ever so glad, it seemed, to not have another child to care for. Mycroft was cross because yet again, it was more time under direct supervision. Sort of. She was a tall and rather imposing stature, chosen more for her past government security C.V. than her loving and nurturing child care.

His academic tutor, Ms. Richardson, hadn't been bothered much at all with the new addition to the family since it would likely be several months before she would start work the baby. Everyone agreed that only once Sherlock could reliably be off all of his monitors should some basic play be introduced. Myroft thought that was idiotic. He said so, privately, just to mummy. She shushed him, he shoved his hands in his pockets, and went straight back to Sherlock's room in righteous defiance. 

Mycroft had kept his secret visits to his brother's room for no more than two days, though he had tried, he really had, to enjoy his fascinating baby brother. But neither his parents nor the nurses had figured out how to interact with Sherlock without lots of crying and inevitable vomiting after prolonged interaction. He had to explain to Mummy what had been obvious to him, who then relay the information to the nurses. They weren't happy being told how to do their job, but did in fact start using more blankets and soft toys with Sherlock. Everyone's nerves were considerably less frayed. 

It wasn't a perfect system, and even Mycroft wasn't immune to upsetting his brother. 

One time, after a particularly awful bath where Sherlock did his best to make his little legs and arms to make the cloth stop touching him, he had been dried and dressed in a onesie, bundled and put back in his crib. He had even calmed down and was propped up on pillows facing outward so he could see the rest of the room. Mycroft, wanting to comfort him, did his usual routine of going to the corner where more soft blankets were neatly folded and stacked, and accidentally knocked them all over. Which in turn knocked over a few empty plastic bottles. Which in turn alarmed Sherlock who started to cry and kick his legs as fiercely as he could. Which in turn set off the alarm on the heart monitor machine. Which in turn moronically made a horrible EEEEE noise. Which in turn alerted Mummy and brought a very cranky evening nurse back into the room. Which in turn elicited a colossal scolding from Mummy, who, in that moment temporarily forgot that noise in Sherlock's room had to be relatively silent before he could be calm. Which in turn was even further over the invisible sensory threshold that Sherlock could deal with. Which escalated everyone's emotions toward breaking point. 

An hour later, after Sherlock had been re-arranged in his crib without much care to avoid direct touch (aftter all, the nurse reasoned to Mummy, he was already upset, it couldn't be much worse). Mycroft had been sent to his room and Ms. Harmon had needed to physically drag him and keep him there. He protested that he was the only one that Sherlock liked and he should be the only one allowed to help. The nurse was incandescent with indignant rage that a seven year old should think himself a better qualified pereson than she was to deal with an over-sensitive little boy.

Father missed out on this particular eventful and stimulating evening, for which Mycroft was glad. And quite peeved.


End file.
